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were dozens of undead, including women and children, dead dwarves, dead elves, and many, many dead sailors, all in various stages of decay. They stood immobile against the walls of the large room, panelled over with rotting planks of knotty pine. The ones closest to him began to slowly crumble into dust in the glow of his holy shield but they made no move. Each held a tag in hand, listing its price in gold pieces.
    “Whoa! You’re a little lost, aren’t you?” remarked a skeletal warrior, approaching from behind a rack filled with dark wands and coming to an abrupt halt ten feet from the holy warrior. “Would you mind stepping outside? You’re dissolving the merchandise!”
    “I am here to help,” offered Miltiades.
    “I said leave!” snarled the undead fighter, jerkily unsheathing a rusted sword and cocking his arm to slash at the knight. Miltiades parried the blow easily with his shield and unhooked his hammer from his belt in the same motion. As the skeleton drew back to swing again, the mallet swept upward and connected with the bony jaw, sending it spinning through the air to shatter against the wall. The monster staggered back a step and caught itself, but Miltiades followed closely and pressed his holy symbol into its chest plate, crying, “In Tyr’s holy name, rest ancient warrior!”
    A pile of dust plopped to the floor and puffed up in a cloud where the skeleton stood. Miltiades walked about the perimeter of the warehouse, disintegrating zombie after zombie, helping in the only way he knew how, by sending them to their final rest. A few minutes later, he exited with tears in his eyes. He’d accomplished Tyr’s work that day.

    “Undead everywhere! By Tyr, how can this be?”
    Able shivered and pressed himself against a tavern wall on the streets of Skullport. Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped into his bulging eyes, burning them at the corners. His breath caught in short heaves and gasps. He gaped fearfully from side to side.
    Shame welled in his heart, for facing undead was the last thing he wanted. The last time he had attempted to put the fear of his god into the walking dead, they had nearly killed him, ignoring his holy symbol in favor of his throat. Now, as he stood in the shadows and trembled, it wasn’t the fear of death that terrified him, it was the fear that he no longer even possessed the power to repel evil.
    “Am I lost to Tyr, or is He lost to me?” he wondered.
    Zombies and skeletons wobbled by in droves. Overhead, several levels of catwalks rattled with the stilted footfall of dozens more. Across the way, a vampire hissed and berated a skeletal warrior for its insolence.
    “All-powerful Tyr, how could you even allow a place like this to exist?” lamented the cleric.
    The vampire noticed Able and peered suspiciously at him. The cleric immediately stood erect, positioning himself for a confrontation without yet drawing weapon or holy symbol. He stared back at the creature defiantly, but a hot prickle tear crawled up his back. The vampire bared its fangs, eyes burning. Then it uttered something under its breath to the skeletal warrior, and both undead turned and walked around a corner. Able inhaled deeply and let it go, closing his eyes in relief. He stood there for a few moments, quelling his stomach.
    A slight scrape on the ground to his right jolted Able to life. With a start, he leaped away from the sound and raised his hammer and shield.
    A zombie watched him apathetically. He had wandered into its path. As Able looked upon the decaying thing, it occurred to him that the creature had once been a boy about Noph’s age. Whatever life that had once surged through the body had been forever ripped away, leaving only a husk to stagger on until it finally crumbled to dust. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t just.
    “Filthy monsters!” he growled. He lifted his warhammer and brandished the holy symbol emblazoned on it, crying, “Behold the light of Tyr and rest!”
    The zombie continue to